


Warmer With You

by MinteyArchive (Mintey)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fallen Castiel, Fluff, Human Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 22:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mintey/pseuds/MinteyArchive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel lands in Russia. Except it wouldn't be right to say lands, because he doesn't remember falling. And even worse, he's cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warmer With You

Castiel lands in Russia.

Except it wouldn't be right to say _lands_ , because he doesn't remember falling. He remembers waking up to the dull numb of frostbite nipping at his fingers and nose.  The cold curls around him, penetrating his body down to his very bones.  Castiel bunches his fingers, finding them stiff and immobile from the subzero temperatures, and clutches a handful of snow.  All around him is a deserted sea of white, the only movements being snow swirling in the air, caused by the biting chill of the persistent winds.

Castiel's feet remain planted firmly to the ground, unable to do much other than watch in sorrow as his brothers and sisters illuminate the night sky with the glow of their burning wings.  He reaches a hand to the corner of his eyes, finding dampness.  Tears drip down the curves of his cheekbones, tracing over the contours of his lips, and falling to the blanket of snow below.  When the last of the angels have touched the ground, the sky returns to its original rich velvet of purple and blue, but even the sprinkling of stars fail to shed light upon the now-darkened world.

While he treks across the barren landscape, Castiel tries not to wonder if this will be his end, if he will not live to see the sun's rays reach over the edge of the Earth to signal a new day.  He blocks the nagging in his brain that asks if he will see Dean again, or that questions if Dean is even searching for him.

Dawn finds Castiel sitting at a shabby diner on the side of an icy service road. The waitress raises an eyebrow, her eyes traveling up and down his soggy trench coat, but still pours Castiel a cup of black coffee. Steam drifts off the top of the mug, curling into the still-cool air of the diner. He takes a tentative sip.  It burns the tip of his tongue and scorches his throat as he swallows, but it warms him up. Castiel hastily gulps down the rest of the cup, seeking the solace of  _warm_.  It's over far too soon, though, and he finds that the instant gratification of the cup has already faded. Castiel fishes in his pockets for the grocery money Dean lent him less than two days ago, and begrudgingly pays the waitress with a crumpled bill.

By the time Castiel follows the long road to the main highways, the sun has already begun to dip back down into the crevices of the white-tipped mountains, bringing back the all-encompassing darkness and the dreaded feeling of  _cold_.  He spots a sign in Russian on the side of the highway, but Castiel could make out the appearance of a seedy motel like the kind Sam and Dean always tend to stay in.  Castiel books a room, using up most of his remaining cash, and settles in for the night.

His clothes are still damp, though, and he takes off his trench coat, suit jacket, and pants, hanging them up to dry.  Then, he burrows deep into the blankets, fighting off chills and the memories that accompany it.  The blankets slowly raise his body temperature, making the change hardly noticeable to Castiel.  When he wakes up the next morning, he is as cold and miserable as the night before.

Sighing, he removes the remainder of his clothes - the blue tie, the white button down, and the boxers - and steps into the bathroom.  Castiel stares at the shower, tilting his head first left, then right, as if the different angles would assist him in working the strange mechanisms of the device.  He reaches out and turns on the knob.  Water splashes out of the shower head at a steady pace, falling onto the floor with a soft  _patter-patter_.  Castiel steps into the stall without testing the temperature, jumping when he finds the water a stark contrast to the warmth of the room. He scurries back out and continues to stare at the shower.

Castiel rubs his hands on his arms and crosses his legs in an attempt to coax his skin into a higher temperature.  He attempts the shower controls once again, his left hand still rubbing while his right fiddles with the knob, but this time he tests the temperature with his hand first. Four tries later, Castiel emerges victorious, and promptly rewards himself by standing stationary in the spray for twenty minutes.

Fog has gathered on the mirror when Castiel steps out, body dripping wet and skin flushed from the hot water. He does a poor job of drying himself with a towel, only gently dabbing it along his limbs, causing the remainder of the water to evaporate and leave a new set of chills to plague him.

Castiel leaves the motel that morning in favor of another long journey.  Evening brings Castiel to a sketchy bar, which he enters eagerly, seeking relief from the strong Russian gales.  He takes a seat on an empty barstool, nodding politely at the man next to him as he'd seen Dean do numerous times.  Castiel waves the bartender away when she offers him a drink, more focused on the conversation taking place at one of the tables close by. 

"Sweetie, you have to order something," says the woman, in Russian, interrupting Castiel's concentration. 

Castiel frowns.  "I don't understand," he says.

This earns him a matching frown from the woman, who tries again in broken English.  "You... buy drink?" she repeats.

"No," Castiel says.  "I don't want a drink."

The bartender bites her lip, frustrated at Castiel's lack of understanding.  One of the men from the table that Castiel had been eavesdropping on comes over, says something in Russian to the bartender, and turns to Castiel.

"She says you have to buy something," the man says.

"I don't have any more money."

"I'll buy you something."  He throws an unfamiliar bill onto the counter, and the bartender hands Castiel a beer.  Castiel feels a hand slip over his shoulder, and he glances down to it, unsettled by the gesture. "C'mon, dude, over here."

Castiel follows cautiously, barely remembering to grab the beer bottle from the counter before doing so. 

"What's an American like you doing out in the middle of Russia?" asks the man's companion.

Castiel knows better than to state the real reason for his sudden appearance in the far corners of the world, so he starts to say, "I don't know," before correcting it to, "Hunting."

Both men raise an eyebrow and one asks, "Huntin' what? Not too much to hunt in the middle of winter."

"Just... hunting," answers Castiel.

One man nods to the other, and the first one leans in and says, "If you're here for the nest of vampires, you can back off. They're ours."

"You're...  _hunters_?" Castiel asks, now noting the familiar plaid shirts and ripped jeans, which are partially hidden by thick winter coats and fuzzy hats. "Do you know where I can find Dean Winchester?"

Another exchanged glance, and then, "We know some people."

Castiel isn't sure he exactly trusts these two hunters - that's Dean's number one rule: don't trust other hunters - but if he's ever going to find the Winchesters, this is his only hope.  He trails behind them as they crowd around the metal payphone in the back of the bar.

If Castiel had been a normal child with a normal human upbringing, he would have thought that their quest to contact Dean was akin to a game of telephone.  The hunters phoned a lady named Cheryl who promised to contact a man named Brad, who in turn could contact Garth, who would then contact the Winchesters.  Castiel wasn't sure he exactly followed the chain of communication, so he stepped back and watched as the hunters punched the black buttons with worn-out white numbers, slipping coins into the slot to buy more time.

"Winchesters are gonna call the phone," says the hunter at last.  "We just gotta wait."

Castiel waited.  He waited as the hunters chatted about the vampire nest, discussing various plans of action.  He waited as the bartender came from table to table, telling customers to pay up on their tabs.  He waited as patrons slowly began to trickle out the door, some more drunk than others.  He waited as the bartender announced last call.  And he waited as she told the group of men that if they didn't get the call in ten minutes, then they were going to have to leave.

Castiel counts down the minutes.  Ten.  Nine.  Eight. Why wasn't Dean calling? Seven. Six. Was he injured on a hunt? Five. Four.  What if he was dead?  The phone rings.

One of the hunters picks up and asks, "Dean Winchester?" 

_"Who the fuck are you and how do you know my brother's name?"_

Castiel breathes a sigh of relief at hearing Sam's voice, alive and... it would be a stretch to say well, but Castiel mentally attributes the quality to Sam anyway.

"You know a freaky dude in a trench coat?  He was asking about you."

_"Castiel?"_

Castiel gives a curt nod to the hunter, who apparently seems satisfied enough with both Sam's and Castiel's answers to give Castiel the phone. He can hear the muffled voices more clearly now, but it's still a muddle of things such as,

 _"Dean be quiet, I'm trying to- Wait did you just say Castiel? Is that Cas on the phone?  Dean, stop it, you're going to drop the-"_ and then finally,  _"Cas, is that you?"_

"Dean," says Castiel. 

_"Thank God, man, we were so worried about you."_

Castiel wants to tell Dean not to use the name God.  He wants to tell him about everything that happened.  He wants to tell him about the endless pit of feelings curling around inside him.  And he wants to tell Dean how worried he was too, but all that comes out is another choked back, "Dean."

_"Alright, alright, hang on buddy, we're coming to get you."_

He hears another argument in the background as Sam once again speaks up, starting with,  _"We are? Yeah bitch, we are. We don't even know where he is!  Well then I'll find out."_

Back into the phone,  _"Cas, where are you?"_

"If the signs and dialect are of any indication, I'm led to believe that I have landed in Russia."

_"Can you give us a town?"_

"No."

_"Cas... just... give the phone to the other hunters and sit tight, okay?"_

Castiel grudgingly gives the phone to one hunter - by now, the other one had gotten bored and left - and sits down in an empty chair. He nods his way through a slew of directions that the hunter relays from Dean, and settles in to do more of what is becoming a very common activity - waiting.

Three days later, Castiel finds himself being ushered through the door of the bunker, and attacked by a very Dean-shaped blur. 

"I forced Dean to stay home," Sam had explained on the flight home. "He started puking in the airport bathroom before we could even get on a plane."

Castiel returned his thoughts to the here and now, his arms rising on their own accord to return the hug.  He feels an aching in his chest - not as sharp as pain, not as empty as longing.  It takes him a moment, but he finally identifies it as relief. Castiel holds on tighter, relishing the way he can feel the softness of Dean's worn plaid shirt as he grips it with his hands, the way he can smell the familiar soap and gun oil combination of Dean's customary scent, the way he can feel Dean's body heat reaching out to comfort his own shivering self.

But then Dean lets go, and everything is cold and empty once again.

Dean doesn't seem to notice though.  He says, "Come on dude, let's get you cleaned up.  Got a little bit of Purgatory Peach Fuzz there."  Dean offers Castiel an easy smile, which Castiel reluctantly returns.

Castiel eats the burgers that Dean cooks for him, accepting the explanation that, "Sam's health-food moo-shoo shit can come later. For now, you get comfort food."  He accepts the long-loved Stanford hoodie and grey sweatpants bearing the Dallas Cowboys' logo.  He even lets Dean shove him towards the bath, saying, "It'll warm you up."

"I know, I already took one."

"When?"

"Before Sam arrived from the airport."

"Dude, you stink."  Dean blinks, and then narrows his eyes.  "You  _did_ use soap, right?"

"No," says Castiel.

Dean launches into a long-winded speech about "actually having to  _clean_ yourself, you idiot," and leaves Castiel to the task of bathing alone.

It isn't until later that night - or morning, arguably, since Dean downloaded a Star Trek marathon on Sam's laptop - when they go to bed, that Castiel is reminded of his new set of feelings.  The frigid cold returns to his bones, made even worse by the lower temperatures of the bunker, and he nests into his blankets, pulling the plushy covers tighter around his aching body.

He wakes up discontented.

The next night, he asks Dean to turn up the thermostat.

And again the night after that.

And again.

The temperature got so high that Dean stopped sleeping with blankets, offering them all to Castiel, and started walking around the bunker in only boxers.  Which, of course, Sam had a complaint about, until it got hot enough that he started doing it too.  Even Kevin, who Castiel hadn't even known was living in the bunker (they must have been in and out of the more well-used rooms at different times) had started showing a little skin.

"Look, Cas," said Dean one day, "It's getting like a sauna in here.  We gotta turn this down."

Castiel nods unhappily, wrapping himself in a blanket and returning to his room. Dean shows up a few hours later, sits on the corner of Castiel's bed, and starts fiddling his fingers.  Castiel watches him for a moment, studying the rough stubble on his cheeks from a day or two of not shaving, the messy hairdo that only makes its appearance after Dean runs his hands through it in frustration, and the bags that appear under his eyes after not sleeping properly.  It becomes evident to Castiel that he isn't going to say anything, so Castiel flops his head back on the pillow, burying his face deeper into the fabric.

"Cas, is everything alright?" says Dean eventually.  Castiel sits back up, resting his back on the bed's headboard, just in time to see Dean go back to studying his hands.

"I'm fine," Castiel replies.

"I'm not gonna pry if you don't want to talk about it," Dean says, "But I know something's gotta be up.  Every time I look at you, you're trailing that blanket along with you like a second shadow.  It's like watching a toddler with a security blanket."

"I am not a toddler," pouts Castiel, earning him one of Dean's long laughs that make the corners of his eyes crinkle.

"I know you're not, Cas. I was just- never mind.  I get it, you don't want to talk about it," Dean says.  He stands to leave.

"I'm cold."

Dean sits back down.  "Yeah, I got that," says Dean.  He makes a sweeping motion at Castiel's pile of blankets.

"No,  _I'm cold_ ," repeats Castiel, silently willing Dean to understand.

He doesn't.

Castiel lets out a frustrated groan and huddles back into the bed.  His frustration goes on for two more weeks, during which Dean incrementally lowers the thermostat to its original temperatures.  Castiel suffers through the return of the chills and the cold and the misery.

Snow is falling outside, and Castiel is leaning on the doorframe, staring out into the night, not caring that the winds are blowing the flakes into the bunker.  It reminds him of Russia, which of course brings back the unwelcome memories of the fall.  He hardly notices when Dean comes to stand next to him.  Dean throws a blanket over Castiel's shoulders.

"You looked naked without it," he offers sheepishly.

Castiel turns to watch him.  Dean licks his lips and casts his eyes downward.  He reaches up a hand to rub at the short hairs on the back of his neck and draws in a breath.

"I'm headed off to bed," Dean says.  He pauses, unsure.  "There's... uh... there's one other thing you haven't tried."

Castiel tilts his head and squints, which seems to unnerve Dean even more, so he returns to staring into the frigid night.

Dean begins talking again. "Sometimes body heat helps.  You could... I... uh..."  Dean shuffles his feet and bites his lip.  "You could come share my bed and see if it helps," he blurts.

Castiel doesn't say anything, and neither does Dean.  Dean just leaves, his shoulders hunched and the tips of his ears red with a deep blush. Castiel continues to watch the snow pile up outside until he grows tired.

It's been more than two hours since their talk, and Dean has long since gone to bed, so Castiel is forced to stumble his way through the dark corridors of the bunker towards Dean's room.

"Wha...?"  He hears the sound of objects being pushed over as Dean fumbles for the light.  Castiel is already at the side of the bed and climbing in, though. Dean stops moving and just says, "Oh."

Castiel cuddles closer to Dean's body.  He accepts the arm Dean throws across his waist, returning the gesture by pressing his head into Dean's chest.  Dean pulls up the blanket over both of their bodies and Castiel lets out a blissful sigh.

He can feel the warmth embracing him, the warmth that failed to come with the burn of the coffee or the swelter of the shower.  He can feel the cold leaving his body, being replaced with a pleasant glow of heat.  He can feel Dean beside him, relaxed and healthy, and Castiel  _feels_.

Castiel wakes up contented, and Dean doesn't argue when Castiel snuggles up next to him the next night. Or the night after.  Or for every night afterwards.

He finally understands.

Castiel is content, and Dean understands.


End file.
